


My Love Is the Killing Kind

by bromeliadslove



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Ideation, i repeat kent does not die, kent does not die, references to Jack's overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 21:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30010881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bromeliadslove/pseuds/bromeliadslove
Summary: Kent doesn’t fall out of love with Zimms so much as fall in love with Swoops. He has to let Zimms go eventually, though--which would be a little easier if Zimms stopped answering Kent's calls.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Jeff "Swoops" Troy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 41





	My Love Is the Killing Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to @biginnyweasley and [@littlefanbean](https://littlefanbean.tumblr.com/) for their amazing beta work!
> 
> Credit for the title goes to [@slutty-mortician's](https://slutty-mortician.tumblr.com/) incredibly intriguing tagging system. Thanks for letting me use it, bestie!
> 
> French translations via [@mirachilles](https://mirachilles.tumblr.com/) who never once judged me for asking how to curse Kent out. I appreciate you specifically lol
> 
> Lines in italics are taken from The Hollow Men by T.S. Elliot

Kent has long resigned himself to the fact that the world is unfair and rarely gives its inhabitants what they want. And  _ oh, _ Kent wants so many things that he feels like he’s  _ drowning _ in it all. 

But for obvious reasons, he can’t have them.

Take Zimms. He’s standing in front of Kent, hands stuffed into his pockets and lips pressed thin. If it weren’t for the streetlights, it would almost be romantic—his profile against the stark black sky, swathed in the light of moon and stars. 

“Kenny,” Zimms says. “You’re drunk.”

Kent laughs, weaving his way to stand by Zimms’ side. But the air is his obstacle, with its peculiar molecules trying to block Kent’s way. 

“That’s the fucking  _ point,  _ Zimms,” Kent says. “No one drinks for the  _ taste.” _

Besides, all it takes is one look at Kent’s teammates to see just how bad it could be. Most of the Aces are  _ smashed,  _ and there’s a wild, violent joy in their revels. 

Kent doesn’t expect the trip. All of a sudden, the air is no longer holding him up, and the ground is rushing up to meet his face.

Kent’s cheek slams onto the cement, and for a moment, Kent wonders if he’s going to die. That would be the life. Dying of a concussion right in front of his ex-boyfriend. What a sexy way to go.

_ “Merde, ça va?  _ Fuck’s sake, Kenny,  _ tu fais toujours ça quand t'es saoul. Pourquoi tu bouges pas?  _ Kenny, c'mon, man,  _ c'est pas drôle, lève-toi!” _

Kent shoves himself up, his vision blurring. 

“You didn’t catch me,” he says blankly. 

Zimms stares at Kent, a tiny crease between his brows. He looks pinched, as if the world has stolen every good thing from him. 

“Let’s get you home,” Zimms says. 

Kent stumbles to his feet, reaching out to grab Zimms’ arm. Zimms moves back before Kent can so much as brush his jacket. And he’s swaying. He’s reeling in the light of the city with only the support of someone he cannot even touch.

“I miss you,” slips from Kent’s mouth. 

Kent hates the needy note in his voice that climbed with every word. Zimms probably thinks Kent is pathetic. That shouldn’t make him burn as much as it does, but Zimms always did possess the talent for slicing through Kent’s skin with as little as a look. 

“You shouldn’t,” Zimms says coldly. Then, as if Kent needs any more incentive to hate him: “I don’t miss you.”

And isn’t that always the way. 

.

Kent plays hockey. He’s good at it because he  _ has _ to be good at it, because hockey is the only thing he has left. The more time he devotes to practicing and going over tapes, the less time he thinks about Zimms on the floor in the bathroom. The less time he thinks about the pill bottle, emptied of its contents, sitting neatly on the counter with the cap screwed back on; the less he thinks of sirens and lights blurring and Bob’s and Alicia’s sobs—Bob and Alicia who were unbreakable, who were solid and unmoving, who  _ were supposed to know what to do— _

Kent practices and plays and scores. He goes drinking with Swoops, he plays the model all-American boy for PR, and he wins.

He  _ has _ to win because  _ he’s not Zimms,  _ and the Aces management like to remind him of that. 

One bad day. One wrong move. One stupid mistake. 

That’s all it would take for them to cut Kent loose. 

So Kent tries to be everything they’re asking for because, if he doesn’t have hockey, what else is there?

Except. Kent isn’t perfect, no matter how hard he tries. He can’t keep his mouth shut when PR sits him down once again to remind him that _ his image isn’t his own, it belongs to the team,  _ and  _ fuck,  _ Kent didn’t sign up for this. 

“Parson,” Allie says. Kent does his best not to flinch at the way she says his name, all hard consonants and clipped vowels. “We’re trying. After that mess with Zimmermann”—and Kent’s leg begins to jitter because  _ they’re not supposed to bring up Zimms, they promised they wouldn’t bring up Zimms— _ “we’ve had our work cut out for us. And at first, it seemed like you were willing to work with us. But now?”

Kent pushes his thigh flat against the seat, but it won’t stop bouncing. 

“I’m trying,” he says. 

“It doesn’t look like it,” Allie says.

“I—“ Kent scrubs his face with the heels of his palms. “I am. I just—I don’t get why it  _ matters _ if I have a drink every now and then—“

“It’s not  _ every now and then,” _ Allie says patiently, like she’s a preschool teacher explaining the alphabet to a toddler. “And it’s not just  _ having a drink.  _ Parson, you’re out of control.”

Kent stares down at the floor where his feet tap out a nervous rhythm. He stumbles through the rest of the meeting, somehow managing to agree at all the right times. 

Yes, he’ll limit his drinking. Yes, he’ll say all the right things during his interviews. Yes, he’ll shut the fuck up when they need him to sit back and be Kent Parson, Second Choice and Last Resort but Still Good Player. 

Kent may be having trouble breathing in his car right now. It’s fine. He’s fine. Except he’s not because bringing up Zimms was supposed to never happen, but they  _ always do _ when they need to keep Kent in line. 

And it works. Kent isn’t sure who he hates more—PR for using that or himself for letting it happen. 

Is this how Zimms felt? Panicky and trapped and unable to find air, no matter how much he breathes? No wonder he popped pills. A part of Kent wishes he were right now. 

Kent needs to talk to Zimms so much right now that it hurts, and he wants to hit himself for that. 

_ Needy, clingy, stupid, he doesn’t want to talk to you, and you shouldn’t want to talk to him— _

“Kenny?”

“They’re gonna trade me,” Kent blurts out. 

Zimms pauses. He holds a wealth of meaning in every silence, but Kent was never able to read a single one. He just knows that Zimms is quiet, and Kent needs him to say something, to reassure him, to  _ tell him what to do.  _

“You don’t know that,” Zimms finally says. 

“I’m not—I’m not even what they wanted. They wanted you, and I’m just the last resort, and I’m  _ impossible to keep in line—“ _

“Did they say that about you?” Zimms demands sharply. 

Kent exhales heavily, letting his forehead fall against the steering wheel. 

“I can’t do this without you,” he whispers. 

“Kenny . . .”

Zimms’ voice is pained, heavy with warning. Kent shouldn’t say it. He isn’t going to say it. He—

“I miss you.”

Zimms inhales shakily, and then there’s nothing. 

Radio silence without so much as a goodbye. 

Kent digs his fingernails into his thigh. 

.

The Aces don’t trade Kent. Kent stops going out for drinks. He keeps winning; he plasters on a perfect smile for the cameras. And so the story goes. 

.

“Thought you were done with drugs,” Zimms said. 

Kent jumps, the bottle nearly slipping from his grasp, and whirls around to find Zimms standing behind him, his arms crossed and a dark scowl on his face. 

“I, um,” Kent says, his brain short-circuiting like a toaster thrown into a pool. “Prescription? I started seeing a therapist. I’m not—“

_ —turning into you.  _

“Why are you here?” Kent asks. 

“You called,” Zimms says shortly. 

“Don’t act so superior, Zimms.  _ You’re _ the one who decided to come.”

Kent pops a pill into his mouth and washes it down with tap water. Despite the nasty tone of voice, he can’t help feeling relieved that Zimms is here because it means that Zimms isn’t done with him. It means Zimm hasn’t given up on Kent, no matter how much he’s asking for it. 

“Have you eaten?” Zimms asks. “You shouldn’t take those on an empty stomach.”

Kent glares at Zimms, a thousand nasty comebacks rising to his tongue. 

_ Yeah, you would know, wouldn’t you? _

_ What, worried I’ll turn out just like you? _

_ I’m not you, Zimms.  _

Instead, Kent goes to make a sandwich because Zimms is right. Kent shouldn’t be irritated by this, but he can’t help it. At this point, it feels like everyone except him is never wrong. 

Zimms remains quiet throughout, which isn’t odd for him—he likes his pauses and breaths and silences—but Kent can tell he’s readying himself for a speech. 

“All right, give it to me,” Kent says once he has finished his sandwich. 

“You’re being an idiot,” Zimms says. 

“Thank you,” Kent says promptly. 

“I mean it, Kenny,” Zimms hisses. “You’re going to burn out if you keep this up.”

Kent stares straight ahead, his eyes wide. They aren’t burning. He doesn’t  _ feel things,  _ and Inner Swoops can shut up now about toxic masculinity and manly tears. 

“I don’t know how to slow down,” Kent whispers, his voice cracking in spite of himself.

Zimms sighs. 

“Please don’t say it,” Zimms says. 

“But it’s true,” Kent says insistently, leaning forward. “Zimms, I’m—“

_ “Don’t,” _ Zimms snaps, pulling away. 

“Why?” Kent demands. “Why shouldn’t I miss you? God, Zimms, the two of us—it was like magic. It was like a fucking  _ dream—” _

“So wake  _ up,” _ Zimms hisses. 

Kent jerks back, his hands shaking. Zimms’ eyes narrow, and he scowls at Kent like he’s about to take him apart, bit by bit, peeling every layer of skin away until there is nothing left. 

“Look at me, Kenny,” Zimms says. Kent avoids his eyes. “Fucking look at me! This—this is fucked up, okay? You think I want to be here? You think I  _ care _ when you call me at three in the morning? You think I—“

“YOU CHOOSE!” Kent explodes. “Every time, you choose. I don’t  _ make _ you do anything. You want this just as much as I do!”

Zimms looks at Kent, his face ashen. 

“You know I have to,” he whispers. 

Kent’s mouth twists into something ugly.

“Fine,” he says. “Fuck off for all I care. At least I have other people I can talk to.”

Not that Kent takes them up on that. But still. Kent: 1; Zimms: 0.

He tries to ignore the wounded fury in Zimms’ eyes. 

.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Kent asks Swoops one night.

“Not really,” Swoops says. “Why?”

Kent shrugs, aware of Swoops’ curious gaze. It’s like prickles climbing their way up his skin and festering into muscle and bone.

“Sometimes I feel like I am one,” Kent says.

“Dude,” Swoops says. The prickles dig in even deeper, and Kent fears what will happen when they pierce their way through the other side. “How high are you?”

And Kent laughs. Because what else can he do?

He laughs until his throat is dry and sound is but a rattle in his chest

.

Kent wins more games. Kent goes to therapy on Mondays, endures interviews in which he presents the most well crafted mask he owns, and laughs at his teammates’ terrible jokes. 

_ Here we go round the prickly pear _

_ Prickly pear prickly pear _

_ Here we go round the prickly pear _

_ At five o'clock in the morning. _

Kent keeps taking his meds. 

.

The thing about Kent Parson is that repetitive cycles can’t last forever. That would require stability, and Kent has none. One would think that at least the rate of  _ decline _ would be steady, but it’s more like a sudden drop. 

Kent’s life is the cliff that the horizon hides. 

Kent isn’t sure how it starts or what comes first. He just knows that it’s happening. It goes like this:

  1. They lose a game. 
  2. Zimms isn’t talking to him. 
  3. Kent blows up at a reporter on live television because she brings up Jack Zimmermann. 
  4. Zimms isn’t talking to him. 
  5. The coach, the managers, and PR all come at Kent at once in a later meeting, and their voices merge into one stabbing pain in Kent’s head (he tries to listen; he honestly, truly _tries,_ but it’s so hard when all they’re saying is what he can come up with by himself).
  6. Zimms isn’t talking to him. 



So yeah, Kent’s life isn’t going too great right now. 

Swoops apparently concurs, but he concurs for all the wrong reasons. 

“It’s like you’re not really here,” Swoops says one night over a bottle of beer. 

Kent swirls his sparkling water. 

“The fuck does that even  _ mean?” _ he demands. 

“You’re fine when it’s everyone all together,” says Swoops. “But the second it’s just you and me, it’s like you shut off.”

Kent stares at the tiny carbonation bubbles rising in his glass. Observant Swoops on the ice is an asset. Observant Swoops off the ice is an attack. 

“Maybe I don’t feel very social,” Kent says as nastily as he can. 

“It’s not like that,” Swoops says. “It’s more like you turn into a zombie.”

“Lay off, man,” Kent mumbles. “I’m just tired is all.”

“Then you’ve been tired since the day we met.”

Well. Swoops isn’t wrong.

Kent doesn’t know how to explain it to Swoops, though, because how can he even  _ say _ how exhausting it all is? That the Kent Parson around the team, in front of the media, and on the ice is just performative? That around Swoops Kent feels safe and can just . . . stop.

“I’ll make sure to drink more coffee,” Kent says. “See ya at practice, Swoops.”

.

“What do you want, Kenny?” Zimms asks, his voice tired.

“Do you think we’re broken?” Kent asks from his position on the floor. The carpet tickles his neck, and Kent wonders if he should get new flooring installed. It’s hardly convenient for him to have his nightly mental breakdown on an uncomfortable floor.

“No,” says Zimms.

Kent looks up at Zimms. Everything about Kent  _ wants _ right now with such a fierceness that it brings tears to his eyes. Even now, hair tousled and dark bags under his eyes, Zimms looks beautiful, the dim glow of the night illuminating his skin.

“I used to think you were untouchable,” Kent says. “Shows how much I know, huh.”

“I  _ am  _ untouchable,” Zimms says.

Kent sneers at Zimms, who mutters a few things in French that Kent doesn’t completely understand. Most likely adoring compliments, of course, because what else would Zimms bother to call him?

“Why did you call me?” Zimms asks.

_ Because I miss you. Because every moment I spend away from your side is like agony, because I feel like I’m drowning without you near. Because it’s not  _ **_fair_ ** _ \--I do everything they ask of me, and they’re still prepared to let me burn. _

“I miss having sex,” Kent says.

Zimms jerks back, his cheeks flushing and eyes narrowing.

“Then go have some,” he snaps.

Kent closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. He should have known this was a bad idea--he never says more idiotic shit than when he’s talking to Zimms. Kent used to blame it on butterflies, on the anxiety of an unreciprocated crush and later on the high of puppy love and sex, but now . . .

“Do you remember what you looked like that night?” Kent asks, his voice raspy. He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “Of course you don’t. Not like you could see yourself.”

“Kenny, please don’t--”

Kent sits up, reaching up to touch Zimms’ cheek. Zimms watches with something close to fear in his eyes, but he doesn’t move. At the last moment, Kent lets his hand fall to his side.

“You were so pale,” Kent says. “It was like all your color had drained into the floor, and your  _ eyes, _ Zimms--”

“Kenny,  _ please--” _

“I called 911, and you know what they told me?” Kent scoffs, his mouth twisting into a bitter curve.  _ “Keep him talking. _ And I  _ tried, _ but you weren’t fucking  _ responding, _ and I thought you were dead, and--”

“SHUT UP!” Zimms yells.

Hands clenched at his sides, Zimms stands in front of Kent, his frame quivering from all the tension inside. It’s a funny thing, the way trying too hard to be still makes it impossible not to shake.

“Was it on purpose?” Kent whispers. 

“Fuck off.”

“Or was it just, like, spur of the moment, pure whim? You’re smart, Zimms--way smarter than I could ever be. Did you know I’d be the one to find you? Did you--”

_ “I just wanted all the noise to stop,” _ Zimms hisses, his face like ash.

Kent stares at Zimms, ever aware of the molecules that block his way. The air around him is burning, screaming in protest the longer Zimms stays near. Kent swallows with some difficulty, his throat dry.

“Yeah,” Kent says, “I know how it feels.” 

Zimms looks more pained the longer Kent looks at him.

“Stop calling me,” Zimms says. “I’m not going to come again.”

Kent watches as Zimms walks away, eventually fading from view.

.

_ This is the way the world ends _

_ This is the way the world ends _

_ This is the way the world ends _

_ Not with a bang but a whimper. _

.

Time does not march on so much as stretch and ebb and flow. Minutes and hours and days are objective measurements, but the perception of how long they take to pass are forever in flux, a confusing swirl of sound and light.

Kent doesn’t think about Zimms. He doesn’t think about Zimms.  _ He doesn’t think about Zimms. _

He instead turns his attention to Swoops. 

This is, of course, a matter of self-preservation and nothing more. And no, Kent is  _ not _ in denial about anything, and his therapist can go fuck herself.

It starts like this:

“Wanna get a drink later?” Kent asks Swoops at the beginning of practice. 

Swoops’ lips thin. 

“Oh, so you’re talking to me again?” he asks bitingly. 

Kent blinks rapidly, unable to control himself. He doesn’t understand what Swoops means. Kent stopped going out for drinks with him, but that doesn’t mean he stopped—

Oh. 

Oh,  _ fuck.  _

It’s intriguing, in a way, to see how Kent ruined two relationships in completely opposite ways. 

“Swoops, I—“

But Swoops is already soldiering ahead, a grim look on his face. 

.

_ I’m sorry, _ Kent thinks throughout practice. 

_ I’m sorry, _ Kent thinks in the locker room, full of noise and chirps. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ Kent thinks in the parking lot as he watches Swoops walk to his car. 

The thing is, Kent can’t quite pinpoint where it all went wrong. It just got harder and harder to talk to Swoops, who somehow  _ knew _ things, even when Kent went out of his way not to say any of it. And after a while, the texts started drying up until they stopped completely, and Kent  _ didn’t even notice it happening. _

“Wait!” Kent blurts out, not quite running after Swoops but something close to it. Swoops hesitates, his hand on the car door handle. “Wait,” Kent says softly.

“Why?” Swoops asks. “So you can leave halfway through a conversation?”

Kent winces. There is a sharp quality to Swoops’ voice that is achingly similar to the bite in Zimms’ whenever Kent pushed things too far. 

“I--” Kent opens his hand, pleading, unsure of what he is asking but knowing that he needs it all the same. “I’m sorry. I was--I was wrong.”

Swoops studies Kent expressionlessly, and he has never felt smaller than he does now, with Swoops’ clinical gaze assessing his every move.

“You know, Parser, you’re not even that bad of a guy,” Swoops says. “You’ve just spent so much time with a stick shoved up your ass that you forget other people exist.”

With that, Swoops gets in his car and slams the door shut. He drives away, and Kent--

Kent finds there is an ache of emptiness he didn’t know was there.

.

After that, there’s not much Kent can do, other than being an annoying, overbearing, aggressive bitch. Zimms made it  _ quite _ clear how upsetting that was, and  _ okay, yes, _ Kent was obnoxious and deserved to be cut off. He  _ knows. _

But ignoring Swoops is simply not an option because they’re  _ teammates. _ Kent couldn’t avoid him if he tried. 

After a few days of frosty glances and stilted attempts at starting a conversation, Swoops sighs. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “God. You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met, you know that?”

“It’s my toxic trait,” Kent says. 

“You’re buying,” Swoops says. 

“Naturally.”

Kent grabs his gym bag and slings it over his shoulder. Swoops’ voice slices through the air, halting Kent in place:

“Parser.” Swoops pauses, his eyes flicking over Kent’s face as if searching for an answer that is not there. “If you disappear on me again, I’m done.”

Kent’s throat tightens. He nods quickly, his hair falling into his eyes. 

.

“So what happened to you?” Swoops asks lazily, a couple drinks in. 

“Management,” Kent says. Swoops gives him a puzzled look, and Kent swallows thickly. “They wanted me to tamp down on the drinking—said I was out of control and bad for their image.”

Swoops snorts, draining the rest of his glass. 

“Bullshit,” he says, his glass clinking as he sets it back onto the table. “If you were  _ out of control _ you couldn’t have stopped, just like that, because of management.”

Swoops eyes Kent with something not quite hostile but definitely not friendly. 

He says, “Besides, you didn’t have to leave me out to dry. We could have done . . . I don’t know, other things? But you just dropped me.”

“I’m kinda bad at communicating,” Kent mumbles.

Swoops laughs, then seems startled by it, as if he didn’t mean to let himself. Slightly flushed from the alcohol, he bumps Kent’s leg with a friendly nudge. And Kent—

He’s tired. That’s the only reason he doesn’t pull away. That’s the only reason his first thought isn’t about Zimms. 

As Swoops stares at him, Kent’s first thought is that he’s . . . not horrible looking. Not even  _ vaguely mediocre.  _ And God, Kent must be exhausted because, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shut his brain up. 

“Anyway,” Swoops says, utterly oblivious to Kent’s inner dilemma, “you’re drinking right now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, you know me,” Kent mutters. “Rubbish at following directions.”

Swoops snorts and hooks his foot around Kent’s ankle. It’s easy and affectionate, and oh, how sharp is the difference between now and yesterday. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be mad at me still?” Kent asks. 

Swoops looks at Kent, his smile gone in all places except his eyes. 

“I’ve found,” Swoops says, “that you are an incredibly difficult person to stay angry with.”

.

In the morning, when Swoops is sober, he’s angry with Kent again. And so the world is set back in its place, spinning its days as it traverses the path around the sun. 

.

This naturally does not last.

If Kent were to assign Swoops a flaw, it would be his inability to hold a grudge. Most would call that a matter of character. Kent, on the other hand, thinks it’s a  _ lack _ of character-- _ stand your ground _ and all that jazz. It’s like Swoops can’t quite make up his mind whether he dislikes Kent. At times, it seems as if he forgets he is  _ supposed _ to be annoyed with Kent.

“I give up,” Swoops groans, burying his face in his arms.

Kent gives Swoops a friendly shove.

“Come on, man, the game has barely started! You can’t--”

“No,” Swoops mumbles into his arms. “I give up on you.”

And Kent . . .

Kent is fine. He totally doesn’t feel like the air is shredding its way down his throat, as if the oxygen around him has grown thorns. This is acceptable because Swoops has every right to be done with Kent, especially with how shitty of a friend Kent is, which Zimms would certainly attest to, and fuck fuck  _ fuck-- _ Kent was supposed to stop thinking about Zimms--

Swoops squeezes Kent’s shoulder.

“We’re friends, I’m sorry, you’re sorry, and blah blah blah,” Swoops says wearily. “Now please, for the love of God, would you stop walking on eggshells around me? It’s almost as bad as the ghosting.”

“We’re friends?” Kent asks blankly.

Swoops gives Kent a funny look.

“I sure as hell hope we are. I don’t let just  _ anyone _ spill salsa over my couch and come back a few days later.”

And--okay, yeah, Kent may have dumped a bowl of salsa onto the couch, but he cleaned it up right away, and also  _ since when did Swoops decide they were friends again? _

Not that Kent is complaining because he  _ wants  _ to be friends with Swoops, and it’s good that they’re friends, and Kent is in no way disappointed about anything whatsoever. 

Swoops rests his head on Kent’s shoulder, his bristly brown hair brushing against Kent’s neck. Kent can’t help leaning into it just the slightest because it has been  _ so long _ since someone has touched him. 

Swoops pulls away, and Kent is struck by how cold it feels without his weight. 

It’s official. Kent is screwed. 

.

A month of Not Thinking About Zimms later, Kent finds himself practically lying on Swoops’ lap. 

Okay. There is a Completely Heterosexual Explanation for this. Kent swears. 

Their team just lost a game, so Swoops naturally suggested they get smashed and drown their sorrows in video games. Kent naturally had to ruin it by admitting that he just didn’t feel like drinking. Swoops somehow managed to convince him to come over anyway just to spend a little time together in mutual misery. Kent isn’t sure about the exact progression of events that led to him lying on Swoops, but—

Well. It might have had to do with Kent being too tired to think straight (ha) or stay upright. At one point, he all but curled up on the couch and let his head fall onto a pillow, only to realize two seconds later that it wasn’t a pillow. 

So yeah. Kent is resting his head on Swoops’ lap, and he’s going to pull away any moment.

Except Swoops is so warm, and Kent is  _ tired _ of feeling cold. Except Swoops’ fingers are gently carding through his hair. Except Kent  _ likes _ where he is right now, and judging by the gentle way Swoops is stroking Kent’s hair, Swoops likes it, too. 

There is no heterosexual explanation for this. 

“Am I,” Swoops starts to whisper, his voice shaky. He breaks off and inhales unevenly. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Kent stares up at Swoops. The flickering light of the television makes every angle of his face look that much sharper. His eyes are wide, and Kent can’t tell where his pupils end and irises begin. 

Without thinking, Kent threads his fingers around the nape of Swoops’ neck and pulls him down for a kiss. 

Swoops stills, and for a moment, Kent is consumed by the overwhelming scream of  _ I FUCKED UP I FUCKED UP I FUCKED UP.  _ Then Swoops tightens his grip on Kent’s hair. 

The scrape of Swoops’ stubble brushes Kent’s cheek. He’s doing this nice thing with his chin, moving it up and down, and Kent follows his lead.

The thing about kissing: people make a big deal about the moment when a person’s mouth opens. Except this isn’t how it goes—at least not for Kent. It’s natural for him to open his mouth, and it’s natural for him to rake his tongue across the top of Swoops’ mouth. 

Swoops gasps sharply, his head falling back slightly.

Kent pushes Swoops flat on his back and bends over him, practically on all fours, as he kisses Swoops until he runs out of air. Swoops frames Kent’s face with his palms, and Kent thinks,  _ Oh.  _

_ Oh.  _

He could definitely get used to this. 

.

“How long?” Swoops asks later in the dark, the rasp of his voice breaking through Kent’s breathless gasps. “How long did you want this?”

Kent is quiet for a while as he thinks about the first time he saw Swoops, all earnest sincerity blended with trademark sarcasm. All the chirps and brief, friendly touches, overshadowed by the mental reminder that Kent could not fuck this up, that Kent was running out of chances he would never get back. 

“I think always,” Kent whispers. “Zimms just—took up everything, and I didn’t really have space to think of anyone else, no matter how much I—“

_ No matter how much I wanted them. No matter how much I wanted you.  _

Swoops wraps his arms around Kent and rests his forehead on the curve of Kent’s neck. 

.

So they’re dating now. Kent thinks. He’s not really sure how dating works, other than the cheesy shit in rom-coms, and this definitely isn’t a rom-com. 

Whatever the case, this is nice (whatever  _ this _ is). They pretty much do the exact same things they did before except with touching and flirting and kissing and sex now entering the equation. 

Kent can’t quite stop thinking of Zimms completely. There are days he misses Zimms so much that it hurts, and it’s like Kent is kneeling on the cold tile all over again, his breath coming in too short of gasps for him to answer the emergency operator’s questions. 

He doesn’t fall out of love with Zimms so much as fall in love with Swoops. 

Really, the fact that everything was going so well should have been the first sign that something was about to go catastrophically wrong. 

This is, after all, the life of Kent Parson. 

.

This would be different if the Aces had won the game. 

At least, Kent thinks it would. He knows his worth is inherently tied to victories on the ice. If Kent had won--

Who is Kent kidding? Even if they had won, he would still be done for. 

Kent can see the timeline leading up to his death as clearly as if someone painted it onto his bathroom mirror.

They lost the game. Half high on sleep-deprivation and exhaustion, Swoops and Kent made their way to a bar. Kent said he wasn’t going to drink. He then proceeded to get drunk.

And he was just so  _ tired, _ and Swoops was  _ right there _ and warmer than anything in the whole bar, and--

There are pictures. There are  _ fucking pictures _ of Kent practically plastered on top of Swoops, and you can  _ tell _ it’s Kent Parson, Number One Fuck Up, in the tweets, and he--

People already talked about Kent. He and Zimms were a little bit closer than some people found comfortable, so rumors have always swirled. But this. This is completely different--it might as well be a sex tape wih the way people are talking about it, and Kent can’t. He  _ can’t. _

Kent pops a couple pills, then rinses his mouth out with water. His hands are shaking over the sink, and he can’t make them still no matter what he tries. 

His mouth is full of air, but none of it makes its way to his lungs.

He thinks Swoops is trying to call him. A lot of people are, but Kent can barely think of answering Swoops, let alone anyone else.

Kent’s therapist tells him that he needs to think of worst-case scenarios when he panics and then to de-escalate from there. The problem is, Kent can  _ only think of the worst-case scenario. _

There is a  _ reason _ Kent doesn’t talk about it; there is a  _ reason _ Kent goes out of his way not to mention Zimms. He doesn’t talk about Swoops, and Swoops never talks about him because they  _ know. _

Kent has  _ seen _ what happens to hockey players who are gay--when they’re unsuspecting, when they’re alone, and sometimes in broad daylight where everyone can see.

Kent chokes back a scream and lets his forehead thunk against the mirror.

The pills aren’t working.

He can’t do this. He can’t keep doing this.  _ He will not do this. _

“Kenny,  _ qu’est-ce que tu fous? Câlisse!” _

Kent starts, wobbling on the heels of his feet, and turns to find Zimms, shimmering slightly in the too-bright light of the bathroom mirror. Zimms stares at Kent, at the pills in Kent’s hands, and he flinches back, a few of the pills spilling onto the floor.

“I--”

Zimms looks at him like the world has been set ablaze, and Kent drowns in his gaze.

“Please,” Zimms says, his face pale. “Don’t do this, Kenny. It’s not--this isn’t what you want--”

And something inside Kent snaps.

“Fuck you!” Kent screams. “FUCK YOU! You think--you think you  _ know _ what I want, Zimms? You  _ left _ and I--I had  _ no one, _ and you didn’t even--I  _ needed _ you, and--”

The pills are slipping through his fingers and clattering onto the floor, and to Kent’s ears, it’s like the very ground is cracking under their weight. 

“I try,” Kent hisses, his voice bleeding into the atoms in between,  _ “so hard. _ I’m always trying, and I’m just--” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Why isn’t it ever enough? I can’t--I can’t  _ do _ this.”

The longer Kent looks at Zimms, the more out of place he seems. But Kent wants him here all the same, selfish as it is. A part of Kent wishes Zimms never left.

“I  _ miss _ you,” Kent whispers.

Zimms’ eyes widen slightly, and Kent braces himself for the inevitable rejection.

“I know,” Zimms says unsteadily. He hesitates, then wraps his hands around Kent’s wrists. There is no weight or warmth in his touch, and Kent resists the urge to pull away. “But you can’t follow me.”

“You chose this,” Kent hisses. “Why can’t I do the same?”

“Because it hurts,” Zimms says, his face pinched. “Because it’s cold and it’s lonely, and  _ you leave everyone behind.” _

“Maybe that’s what I want,” Kent says, his eyes stinging.

Zimms shakes his head, this whisper of light and sound in the air. His movements offer no shadow, and he might as well not be there.

“No,” he says softly, “you don’t.” 

He rests his hand along Kent’s jaw, and Kent, desperate and foolish as he is, leans into a touch that is not there. Zimms’ color is already fading away, and soon the rest of Zimms will follow.

_ “Do you believe in ghosts?” Kent asked Swoops. _

_ “Not really,” Swoops said. “Why?” _

Because there are ghosts wherever Kent goes. Because people live and die and disappear, but some choose to stay behind. Because the ghost of Kent’s first boyfriend still comes when he calls.

“You came back,” Kent says unsteadily. “You said you wouldn’t, but you’re  _ here, _ so doesn’t that mean something?”

“I never got to leave,” Zimms says. There may be tears in his eyes. Kent isn’t sure--it’s hard to tell what ghosts can and can’t do, and he’s never seen one cry before. 

When Kent hesitates, Zimms bends down and kisses him. Kent automatically kisses back, but it’s like trying to kiss the wind--movement and color and sound, but without a solid thing to meet him halfway.

_ "Je suis désolé, je t'aime,” _ Zimms whispers against Kent’s lips. _ “Je t'aime, je suis désolé.” _

_ I’m sorry, I love you. I love you, I’m sorry. _

There is something to be said about the way Zimms’ love blurs into apology. They are intricately connected, interwoven from their roots, and Kent doubts Zimms would be able to express one without the other.

“You need to let me go, Kenny,” Zimms says.

And Zimms, too, slips through Kent’s fingers.

That’s the way of the world. Everything falls away.

Kent looks at the pills scattered on the floor and swallows. He walks out of the bathroom to pick his phone up from the bed. There are multiple texts and missed calls, but Kent ignores them all.

He calls Swoops, who answers on the first ring.

“Are you okay?” Swoops asks.

“Are you?” Kent asks.

“They, um--” Swoops clears his throat. “They don’t know it’s me. In the photo. They just--” Kent can hear him swallow. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

Kent sits on the bed, tracing the pattern of his comforter with his finger.

“Can you come over?” Kent whispers. There is a vulnerable note in his voice that he cannot bear to hear, and he prays that Swoops is oblivious to it.

But this is Swoops, who somehow noticed Kent even as he tried his best to fade away.

Kent knows now that when he calls, Swoops will be there.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Merde, ça va? Fuck’s sake, Kenny, tu fais toujours ça quand t'es saoul. Pourquoi tu bouges pas? Kenny, c'mon, man, c'est pas drôle, lève-toi!”  
> "Shit, are you okay? Fuck's sake, Kenny, this always happens when you get drunk. Why aren't you moving? Kenny, c'mon, man, this isn't funny, get up!"
> 
> “Kenny, qu’est-ce que tu fous? Câlisse!”  
> "Kenny, what the fuck are you doing?"
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Leave a comment below or [come chat with me on tumblr!](https://trashynishiki.tumblr.com/)


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